


The Woman

by inkfingers_mcgee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderswap, Joan Watson - Freeform, female!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfingers_mcgee/pseuds/inkfingers_mcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson was an unhappy person. It wasn't that she hadn't opened herself to change, only that she wasn't expecting the healing of harms to come any time soon, much less at the hands of a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> author's note 5/19/16: i wrote this when i was 16. that's all we'll say about that. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

When Joan met Sherlock Holmes, she had not been at a place in which she expected her life to amount to anything.  
She’d lived in a musty flat on a pension which did little aside from keeping her out of the gutters. Leaning on her cane, she kept her head up and her shoulders strong— she could hardly take a walk along the street without people glancing, and the only appropriate reaction was to take the looks with her dignity intact. There was a mixture of opinions in those sideways peeks from passersby: pity, condescension, confusion. People didn’t usually expect to see a woman hobbling unaccompanied about London, especially not a woman like Joan. Unassuming at best, she draped her body in loose-fitting fabrics, wore her dishwater hair in a fine-cropped pixie cut, and on a good day might be called petite (on a bad day, “short” or “boxy” were better characterizations). Her weathered face could still muster an open smile once and a while, but for the most part her frown lines had deepened prematurely. She supposed that someone who didn’t know her might see her and be swept up in the assumption that she was a weak, broken woman. God knew that wasn’t the case. Scar tissue stretched over the great expanses of her bleeding heart, making hard what had once been the seat of soft sentiments. She was rough at the edges, not overtly upset, but certainly a bit disgruntled at— well, everything. 

She’d been that way for long enough now that she was unsure if the condition was reversible. It wasn’t that she hadn’t opened herself to change, only that she wasn’t expecting the healing of harms to come any time soon, much less at the hands of a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath.

Five minutes of fruitless waving passed before she successfully hailed a cab. She welcomed the sweet respite of _not walking_ , allowing her leg to loll to one side as it throbbed in relative peace. No matter how she herself— or her therapist— bullied her into exercising her lame limb, she would believe firmly that stumping around London in sprinkling rain was a sodding awful idea.

“Where to?” the cabbie inquired.

It was then, before she could answer, that the door across from her was thrown open and the human embodiment of tall-dark-and-handsome slid into the cab. In the fleeting seconds after her eyes fell on him, she moved rapidly from attraction (dear god he was gorgeous and she had not had a date in ages _if what if what if_ ) to incredulity (what kind of person leapt into an occupied cab while it was moving?) to sheer bewilderment when the cabbie reacted with, “Sherlock Holmes! Where to, today?”

“Keep driving, I’ll point out the destination when we reach it.” And as if the alien-cheekbones-shampoo-commercial-hair-Michelangelo-sculpture-skin aesthetics weren’t enough, his bloody voice was— hot chocolate. It was stupid and Joan immediately questioned her sanity for thinking it, but hot chocolate was the only thing that seemed a suitable juxtaposition.

The man, Mr. Holmes, apparently, turned to her. “No hard feelings, I hope. Henning,” he indicated the driver with a nod, “owes me a favor or two and my business is _quite_ pressing.”

“Oh,” her mouth said without consulting her. She probably should have followed with something like, “That’s all well and good, but I hailed this cab myself so get your own,” or at least, “Good, then, I’ll be going,” but instead she just sat and blinked at him. It was obvious that this fellow was an inconsiderate wanker at best, but that would not stop her staring.

“Good, then.” Mr. Holmes smiled, artificial and wide as the Cheshire cat, before whipping out his phone and immediately becoming absorbed in it. Joan continued staring. She made an almost-genuine effort to stop, but her eyes refused to move on, as if a physical connection kept her focused on the fine planes of his profile. She knew she was more reasonable than this. This was stupid.

Abruptly he looked up and she jumped a little, finding his cold gaze particularly uncomfortable to be under. For the first time she realized just how tall he was, even sitting. Then, hot chocolate again: “Can I borrow your phone?”

Joan licked her lips. “Uh,” she tried. She cleared her throat, tried again. “Why don’t you use your own?”

“Can’t, always a chance the number will be recognized.” He straightened his shirt collar in a manner that would have spoke of condescension in another, but catered more towards neuroticism in his case.

“Why don’t you wait and use the landline wherever you’re going?”

“I prefer to text.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, but the gaze didn’t quite feel mutual— Joan was vaguely aware that she was not being looked at, but through.

“Sure,” she conceded finally, drawing the phone from her pocket. The baggy loop of her sleeve slid down as the phone changed hands, and Mr. Holmes’s eyes raked attention over her evanescing tan. It was a look intense enough to evoke in Joan a feeling of violation, but before she could say anything he was flipping open the phone and asking, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Joan blinked, bewildered. “Sorry?”

Mr. Holmes didn’t look up. “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

She weighed the likelihood that she’d just stepped into the twilight zone as she glanced to the cabby, who grinned in the rearview mirror. “Afghanistan,” she managed. “Sorry, how did you—”

“Your posture says military and so does your skin. Dark, so you’ve been abroad, but no tan below the wrists, so you haven’t been sunbathing. There’s your limp— saw it as you were getting in the cab— clearly psychosomatic as you only expressed pain while walking, so it must’ve been a traumatic injury. Trauma, wounded in action. Wounded in action, Afghanistan or Iraq. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

Joan almost choked on her own tongue. “God, are you stalking me?”

“Of course not.” Mr. Holmes snapped the phone shut and passed it back, giving her an appraising look.

“Then how could you possibly know all of that!”

“I didn’t _know_ , I _observed_.”

There was a long moment when Joan half-expected for the cabby to turn and shout, “You’re on candid camera!” but when that didn’t happen, she took the bait.  
“What do you mean, _observed_?”

He snorted. “I looked at you.”

“Yes, but how do you _observe_ that I’m home from Afghanistan with just a look?”

“The same way I’ve _observed_ you’re a doctor living on a pension who won’t go to her brother for help. Is the divorce or the drinking your objection?” 

“What— God, _how_ —?”

“You’ve got the calluses and the motor mannerisms of a surgeon, and the haircut and clothing of a woman who’s being frugal with expenses in addition to smelling of low-rent flats, no perfume.” He punctuated this point by sniffing deeply, then snatched the phone back. “This isn’t something you’d waste money on, so it’s a gift. Scratches on the exterior say previous owner, model says fairly new, a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin’s, but a cousin would take in a war hero, so this must be someone closer— your brother, Harry. Inscription says he wanted to get rid of it; if she left him we would have kept it— people do, sentiment— but he wanted rid of it, so he left her. Scratches around the charging port suggest the shaking hands of a drunk plugged this in every night, but not your hands since the most recent ones are a few months old, judging by the overlaying wear.”

It took Joan a full ten seconds to realize she was slack-jawed. She closed her mouth. It fell a bit open again.  
“That’s... brilliant.”

Mr. Holmes’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Yeah! Bloody amazing!”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

He laughed. “Piss off.”

“Oh,” she nodded, because that was a little understandable.

Something dangerous flickered in Mr. Holmes’s high gaze. “You’ve seen a lot of violence. Traumatic deaths, that sort of thing.”

The subject change was the least-disorienting occurrence of the cab ride, so Joan went along with it. “Yes, of course.”

“Bit of trouble, too, I’d expect.”

Joan’s brow folded. “Enough for a lifetime.”

Mr. Holmes was suddenly grinning. “Want to see some more?”

“No,” was supposed to be the answer that came out of her mouth, but instead her lips ignored moral norms and said, “Oh God, yes.”

“Then get the cab fare and come with me.” Without warning he threw open the door and leapt out. Joan nearly tumbled into the seat in front of her when the driver slammed the brakes, and found herself watching in bewilderment the long-coated figure that ran down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians.

For a fleeting moment she considered closing the door and going on with her life. She could see herself reaching her flat, could feel it turning stale without a miles-tall alien-faced man dashing about it. Common sense pandered half-baked reasons why it would be right to go home to that insipid flat and stupid follow Mr. Holmes, wherever he was going, but her loneliness and curiosity and boredom all screamed _dear lord go after that man_. If anything, she just needed to know what was going on with him. What kind of person told strangers their life story in a ten-minute cab ride? Surely that warranted finding out. If anything, it was worth it to shake the awful cloak of _nothing_ that had burdened her since the bullet tore her shoulder open. 

"That's £10," the cabby said, bringing reality back to her in a rush of city sounds and the image of Mr. Holmes’s coat vanishing around a distant corner.

“Right!” she cried, flinging a few notes at him. The concrete was slick when she stumbled out, crutching in the direction the phantom man went, and before she was able to react she was stumbling and losing grip on her wallet. It hit the pavement with a slap. She had barely thought to pick it up when a gloved hand snatched it from the concrete by the spine and flipped it open. She looked up, where Mr. Holmes stood, shuffling through her wallet. He lifted out a paper card, translucent with dampness.  
“John Watson,” he read aloud.

Joan laughed, a bit hysterically. “Oh— no, that’s a misprint, I’ve been meaning to get it fixed. It’s Joan, Mr. Holmes.” She extended a hand for shaking. He eyed it a moment then slid his gloved hand over hers, giving a firm shake.

“Sherlock, please, John.”

“Joan,” she corrected. He paused a moment, glancing off, and when his gaze returned to her he carried the slightly smug air of someone who’s just solved another man’s problems. “How do you feel about the violin?”

Joan was broadsided. “Hold on, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end... Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He followed this matter-of-fact statement with an odd sort of smile, not quite genuine and apparently conjured with the intent to beguile. Joan looked on in bemusement. She perched on the edge of her defenses, unsure whether to be threatened or not. Though she by no means disliked men, she’d been groped without invitation one too many times to be boundlessly trusting of the entire sex— she’d known this man for less than half an hour, after all. “Who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did. You’re an experienced army doctor struggling to make ends meet and I’m a consulting detective who could use someone like you— your gender and injury will make me hard to reject if you accompany me to crime scenes,” he said, as if the whole matter were simple and tedious. “The DI who handles the _interesting_ cases is far too sympathetic to turn away _this_.” He gestured to her general patheticness and she frowned.

“Oh, that’s nice. Look, you, I— wait.” She paused, allowing curiosity to in her over. “What’s a consulting detective?”

Sherlock grinned and began walking.

“Oh, you’ll see, John.”

“Joan.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“ _Joan_. My name’s Joan, not John.”

“Irrelevant,” he scoffed. “Teaching yourself to respond to John will be much simpler reconditioning myself to know you by another name.” She was perturbed by this answer, but she guessed (correctly) there would be no changing his mind.

“Have you read about the serial suicides in the papers, John?”

“Joan. And yes, I have. Three victims, yeah?”

“No, four!” The unconcealed look of glee he produced should have frightened her, but it was a bit enthralling. “And this one left a note! It’s Christmas!”

Joan seemed to remember Christmas containing fewer dead bodies, but she didn’t say anything. She knew already that this would not be the wildest thing that happened so long as she was with Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day was a blur.

Before she quite knew what was happening, Joan found herself sitting across from Sherlock in a Chinese restaurant at 2 AM, gunpowder burns on her fingertips and a ridiculous sort of grin on her face. She’d just killed a man but that didn’t bother her, not as much as it should have— after all, he wasn’t a very good man. There’d been too much violence, but _oh God yes_ it was completely okay. For the first time in months she had no idea where her cane was. She didn’t need it anymore. Probably never would.

Sherlock glanced up from the forkful of noodles she’d chided him into eating when a shrill giggle broke out of her.

“Oh— God, sorry.” A hand pressed to her lips, doing little to encourage the subside of laughter. “I just— no, this is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Has anyone ever told you that?”

The detective continued to eye her, one brow arched, as if she were some anomaly splayed beneath a microscope. “...Yes,” he said finally, “though generally the connotation is negative. Since you’ve called me every synonym of ‘amazing’ within the past 48 hours I’m willing to assume this is a positive ‘ridiculous.’” A smile overtook his lips, sort of real but at the same time uncomfortable to look at.

Joan chuckled into her coffee. “Yeah, good deduction there.”

“How many people have you killed before tonight?”

Already growing accustomed to Sherlock’s frequent curveballs, Joan was able to arrive at an answer without gawking for _too_ long.

“I don’t know. Lost count.”

“People don’t lose count of things like that. Not people like you.” The slide-under-a-lens gaze lost all of its intrigue, now— Sherlock might as well have shaken her, patted her down and turned out her pockets for the painstaking leaps his eyes cast over her. Joan squirmed.

“Eight, if you’ve got to know.”

“Including tonight?”

“Nine.”

They stared. This was evaluation. Joan knew her willingness to _kill a man_ for him should have been enough, but he seemed to be searching for something else to seal their partnership. Colleagueship. Friendship.

Whatever.

“It’s unusual for a woman to kill,” he said finally, and Joan’s fist obliterated the napkin in her hand. He had got to be _bloody joking_.

“You’re seriously upset that I _saved your arse_?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course not. I’d be upset if you stood by and did nothing. But, as I said, your actions were unusual. I’m simply— curious.” He rested on his elbows, fingertips steepled beneath his chin. “Would you be willing to repeat similar actions in the future if our lives depended on it, without allowing sentiment to inhibit your judgment?”

“Of course.” The answer left her quite before she thought it over.

“And can I trust you to—” abruptly he stopped, squinting at her.

“What?”

Sherlock stood, tossing in his napkin. “Check!” he called, already tapping his foot in impatience as Joan rose next to him. “John—”

“Joan.”

“John,” he countered, smirking a bit at his own cheekiness, “I should warn you that I am unaccustomed to living with others and that I am always late with rent.”

She shrugged. “Can’t be worse than Harry, I found her shagging in my bed more than once.”

They laughed all the way to their cab. Between there and Baker Street, Sherlock detailed a few of his finer preferences (“My experiments are entirely off-limits. There’s an infrared laser system around them anyway, so don’t go near.”), Joan laid down her rules (“Leave the toilet seat down and for your own safety _don’t eat my food_.”) and they found more than one thing to laugh about. She had the sneaking suspicion that if he had not made clear his devoted marital status to work and if she had not so adamantly fended off romantic implications— “Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms.” “I’m not his date!” —she might have thought about picking up that crush again (though this may have only been 2:30 AM talking).

Joan stumbled up the stairs to the flat upon arrival, Sherlock behind her, and surveyed the cluttered dwelling that was now _home_.

“Second room’s upstairs?” she inquired beneath yawn.

Flopping onto the couch, Sherlock gave a nod of confirmation.

“Right, then.” The first three stairs creaked. She stopped before the fourth. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

 

***

 

The music found her.

She didn’t quite know how; it should have been impossible for anything to find her here, wedged between horror and insomnia. Asleep or awake, it was challenging to tell. Her shoulder burned, but it always burned. The music called to her, cool and easy amidst the rush of illusions.

“Wake up,” the music said. It drew her apart, crawled inside her. The sheets jerked around her, bullets rending feathers from the pillow beneath her head. Someone was screaming. No, not screaming— screeching. The sound was inhuman.

A violin.

The music called her as it grew, flourishing into chaotic glissandos and breaking into low, crooning dirges. A small part of her questioned the very existence of such a concert, but her mind at large, which was mostly asleep, allowed itself to spin violently into the sound. Inexplicably she was reminded of a body. The high, quick scales took her back to the first sinew she’d snipped in medical school, and the descent into a harsh bridge resonated with the stubborn calluses of a foot she’d once dug a bullet out of. The melody smelled like blood. Someone was screaming. It was a real voice this time.

Joan jerked awake sobbing.

Her dreams were spiraling away, London mists clinging to the last vestiges of morning, but the music continued. Between shuddering breaths she took in her surroundings— peeling wallpaper, new sheets, where was her cane?— and fought the panic of an unfamiliar place. There was a retch in the violin playing, then silence. Joan trembled. She couldn’t see straight. The silence stifled her. It _hurt_ like a million years of solitude. But Sherlock began playing again and it all came back, bits and pieces tumbling in at odd angles, the echo of a gunshot and the fear of a slick black car pulling up to the curb and a deep, calculating voice saying “Army doctor recently invalidated home—”

She got up.

Toeing her way down the stairs, she cringed at every groaning step. She was parched but the last thing she wanted was a run-in with her new flatmate when her eyes were chapped from crying, especially if her nightmare-induced screams had been audible beyond the bedroom. “Oh, by the way, I experience awful night terrors!” Not quite the revelation to begin a living arrangement with.

She had just crept into the kitchen and secured a glass when the violin paused. 

“John?”

A cringe bent her features as she wiped her eyes.

“Yes?” Her voice quivered.

“Never mentioned you have nightmares, did you?”

Bugger him. Joan rounded the corner with her fingers spread over her brow, catching a glimpse of Sherlock on the couch exactly where she’d left him. If he hadn’t had the violin, she’d have assumed he never moved.

“Well, not generally a good introduction, is it? Hi, I’m John. I’m too scared to stay asleep.”

He was suddenly laughing. 

“The hell, Sherlock!?” She almost slapped him— not something she usually did unless insufferable geniuses were _laughing at her trauma_ — but then realized what she said and stayed the blow. She couldn’t help but join him, a tired snigger rising in her throat. “God, right. Okay, you win. I’m John, now. Happy?”

“Of course,” he nodded and mounted the violin against his neck. When he spoke again it was over a peculiar piece which she wasn’t sure she liked. “But you’re nearly used to them now, the nightmares. Hardly mind your hand, either.”

He was right— the tremble of her hand had gone entirely unnoticed until he mentioned it. She pocketed the extremity and sought eye-contact with the skull, who was much easier to look at.

“You were quite the soldier,” Sherlock mused. “A real soldier. A Queen-and-Country, Lion-Heart soldier.” She didn’t say anything. No matter how tight she pressed her lips, they trembled. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. _You’re just tired_ , she told herself. _That’s all_. Sherlock peered at her over the neck of his violin. “May I see your scar?”

“No!” 

The instrument fell mute and her voice echoed a little. The hand shivered in her pocket. “I-I mean— no, I’m sorry, that’s all very personal. You’re just my flatmate, we can’t—”

“Of course not, John” the detective scoffed. “My interest was purely quantitative. Obviously you’re an unwilling subject.” His head cocked. “Bach?”

She sighed, bringing both hands to her face. “Sorry?”

“Bach is generally regarded as soothing music and obviously you’re in need of soothing if you’re going to get any sleep. I have no desire to interact with you tomorrow if sleep deprivation makes you irritable, as it likely will, so Bach it is.”

Before she was able to grasp the situation, Sherlock was coaxing a soft suite from the strings that had her eyelids fluttering. “Go to bed,” he told her, as if playing a lullaby wasn’t a strong enough hint. “I refuse to share a flat with a grouchy woman.” Such a comment would have gotten at least a jovial scolding in normal circumstances, but with the sweet notes guiding her steps, she soon found herself waving a numb goodnight, climbing the stairs and slipping beneath the covers.

And so she experienced her first stretch of dreamless sleep on the same dark morning that she became John Watson, Official Flatmate and Crimesolving Sidekick of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

John (Joan? No, John.) found it odd how easily she assimilated into Sherlock’s life.

Normal people probably would have hit a few roadblocks on the way— at least, a few more— but she found it simple to conform to his impromptu experimentation, (could be) dangerous cases, and morning-hour violin concertos. The things that he did to irk her (wouldn’t go shopping, left the toilet seat up, and how in god’s name did he guess her laptop password so quickly?) were overlookable, in light of what he’d done for her. He’d made her _into someone_. She used to be someone, before the war. She had been a student, a sister, a civilian. During the war she’d become a hero, a real trooper. She’d had purpose, something which had been torn away with half her shoulder. But now, because of Sherlock, her purpose had come afresh.

And she loved it.

The other people in Sherlock’s life accepted her easily; Mrs. Hudson frequently tittered about how her “feminine touch” was so healthy for Sherlock, and the veteran Yarders seemed largely grateful of her. Though she couldn’t quite imagine how Sherlock could be worse, she was assured in no uncertain terms that she had an unnatural ability to temper the human hurricane. At crime scenes it seemed she alone could reign in his deductions (“Sherlock— stop— what!?”) and even if his simple English explanations were given in sour countenance, it was more than anyone else could glean from him.   
Beyond that, their coexistence was fluent to the point of eeriness. Sherlock was blithering with insanity and John stood with her feet firmly on the ground, but neither dreamed of changing the other (well, maybe sometimes, but only after rows based on just what was molding in the refrigerator). In truth, their antithesis formed a certain symbiosis— he was the electricity and she was the conductor. Without the other, one was destructive and the other was useless, but together, they were _lightening_.

That wasn’t to say they didn’t have their issues.  
Though John considered herself frank, Sherlock believed in sincerity to the point of brutality, and this became a problem on more the one occasion. Particularly, it played a part in driving away any chance she had at a steady boyfriend. First there was Sam, who Sherlock accused of buying hookers, then William, who Sherlock said was too fat, then Ben, who John unfortunately left alone with Sherlock for a few minutes too long. Neither man would ever tell her exactly what was said, but the ordeal ended in a swift breakup and a rather indignant-looking consulting detective (“Do admit it, John, he was far too stupid for you.”).

Sherlock’s blunt nature did not end there— no, John herself usually got the butt of it. The worst result of this habit, however, was not simply the emotional damage of violent honesty, but the uncomfortable conversations which always seemed to spring from said honesty. For instance, she once wandered into the living room still in her pajamas, and in lieu of good morning he said,

“One and a half pounds.”

John blinked. “What?”

“One and a half pounds. You’ve gained weight.” He reported this disinterestedly from behind the morning paper, as if observing a mundane fall in the stocks.

“Sh—” a laugh broke out of her quite without her intending it to, and she licked her lips in the pursuing pause. “Sherlock, you can’t just tell someone when they’ve put on weight. That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t see why,” he shrugged, turning the page. “People should be aware of themselves. Oh, locked door murder—! But DI Charleston’s supervising, can’t stand that idiot.” John stood fixed upon him against her will, rather like a horrific car accident that’s painful to look at but challenging to turn away from. She opened her mouth to speak, but upon realizing that there were absolutely no words to address such a situation, dropped into her desk chair and flipped open her laptop. She stole glances as she waited for it to boot and began blogging once it did, her two forefingers pecking at a labored 30 words per minute, tongue making a sly appearance to touch the corner of her mouth in concentration. Suddenly a shadow swept over her. She almost choked on her own tongue in surprise, but it was just Sherlock. Of course. It was always Sherlock.

“Ninjas make more noise than you,” she huffed.

Sherlock scoffed and took the seat opposite her. “Irrational. Simply because I don’t announce myself whenever I get near to you, doesn’t mean I’m at all stealthy. It only means you’re unobservant. What do you mean by ‘could be in love’?”

She’d never get used to the subject changes.

“I— well, uh,” her eyes skipped to the last sentence she’d written for her blog (“Also, I’ve met a fellow who I could be in love with, but we’ll see”) and back to Sherlock, entirely unsure of how to proceed safely. “I mean, really, er—” What exactly _did_ she mean, _could be in love_? She was referring to Liam, who was a nice bloke from the clinic, attractive and gentle and much taller than John (but not taller than Sherlock), who she’d eaten lunch with a few times. His jovial nature was refreshing after spending so much time with the world’s only Consulting Drama Queen, but even as she thought of him, it was clear to her they’d never work out as a couple. He didn’t even know she currently lived with a man, or that her reason for being late so frequently was that she spent her nights picking apart London’s criminal underground. She doubted he was the type to let either of those things continue. Besides, they’d only been talking a few weeks. That wasn’t time to fall in love, not really. John blinked at the computer’s screen and reread her last sentence, realizing she was reading the words of a woman who’d gone and let herself get desperate.

“Never mind, it was stupid,” she murmured, and pressed down the backspace.

“But what _do_ you consider to be love?” Sherlock leaned forward on the table, steepled hands indicating that John had just become an experiment.

She thought for a moment and said, “When you meet someone who shares the same soul as you, I think. Their interests and personality don’t have to be similar at all, but there’ll be a part of you in each other.”

For approximately three seconds Sherlock gazed at her earnestly. Then he gave an almighty snort and laughed at her. Flushing to the ears, John slapped her laptop shut and snapped, “Right! Fine! Laugh!” But she couldn’t help it; she grinned in the ever-slightest, even though she was a bit irked for the rest of the day. Some silly, backwards part of her had almost hoped he’d agree with her theory of love, but that just wasn’t how Sherlock was. He didn’t do relationships or love, and she knew it, yet somehow that was okay. It was all okay.

John always made a point of not crying in front of Sherlock.  
Since that first night he’d only seen her cry once, and that was when the dog died in the movie she’d rented during _that_ time of the month, so it didn’t really count. Regardless, he chided her relentlessly for weeks (“You say my emotional withdrawal is ‘ridiculous,’ but at least I didn’t cry at _Lassie_!”) so she made a pointed effort to avoid shedding tears in front of him again.

The night Moriarty took her hostage and wrapped her in explosives, she came home and sobbed into Sherlock’s arms.

He didn’t seem to know what to do with her; his hands hung rigid over her shoulders as if he wanted to replicate some soothing gesture he’d witnessed before, but didn’t know how. Half of his shirt was damp with her various facial fluids before his palms finally made contact with her shoulders, laying them there until the shudders of her frame subsided into small hiccups. Awkwardly, he patted her back and murmured, “Bach, tonight?” It wasn’t the best consolation she’d ever received, but once she eased beneath the covers, the easy hum of his violin drove away the bad dreams better than any flimsy words of comfort ever could.

Some days she wondered what her relationship actually was.  
She allowed the blanket term _flatmates_ to stand in when she was sketchy on the details, but for the most part she thought of him as a friend. Maybe even a best friend, or— and she only thought this when she was particularly delirious— a soulmate. It was all platonic, though. She told herself that a lot. He’d do something wild, something stupid, something _Sherlock_ , and her mind would scream, _I love you!_ then murmur, reluctantly, _as a friend, of course_. 

Mrs. Hudson didn’t help matters. If they ran into each other when Sherlock was absent, the landlady would make at least a few not-so-vague implications (“He really is a nice man once you get to know him, isn’t he?” “How are you two? Still using both bedrooms?”) and half the yard liked to rib them about it. “Opposites attract!” was Sally Donovan’s personal favorite, usually declared before calling Sherlock a psychopath and suggesting John try find herself someone else to fancy. And try, she did. She talked to more and more men, but her dates grew fewer and farther in between as little nuggets such as “Yeah, Sherlock said—” and, “Oh, my flatmate Sherlock did—” began to slip unbidden into her every conversation. She even thought she might have something with Lestrade, for a while, but whatever meaningful glances or flirtatious banter they shared were almost instantly broken up by a certain mop of raven hair and a great deal of overcoat.

They sat in a dingy Thai food restaurant when John decided it was finally time to say something about it. 

“Sherlock,” she began, and it almost physically hurt to continue, “I don’t think we should live together anymore. It’s...” she chewed her lip, avoided his eyes. “I need someone in my life right now, someone who’s— well, a romantic partner. A boyfriend, you know.”

His gaze went dark. “You’ve had plenty of boyfriends—“

“They never stay, Sherlock. Either I drive them away or you do, usually you. Men just...” A deep sigh escaped her as she rubbed each temple with a forefinger. “They don’t like the idea of their girlfriend living with another man, even if they’re just friends.”

“We’re not friends, we’re _colleagues_ , you said so yourself.” Sherlock glared, and John blinked.

“What—?” And then she remembered, months before, in that far-too-posh bank office:  
 _“This is John Watson, my friend.”  
“Joan Watson. Colleague.”_

Biting her lip to conceal a cringe, she reached out and took one of his spidery hands in both her smaller ones. “Sherlock, no, I didn’t mean that. You’re my friend. You’re— my best friend.” Her thumbs drew soothing circles over his marble skin. “I mean it. You really are.” Though something in his eyes wavered, his hard expression didn’t relent, and she sighed. “I guess... I-I mean, maybe we can see if it’ll work for me to keep living here. _Maybe_ for a bit longer, but no promises.”

Six months later they were still living together.  
Chasing criminals. Solving crimes. Giggling hysterically in alleyways at 4 AM. John felt more single than ever, but that was okay with her, now, because she had Sherlock, and that was almost like— well. It was companionship, and that’s what she wanted. So everything was okay.

Then Irene Adler happened.


	4. Chapter 4

Before the story goes any further, it should be noted that John was not, usually, a jealous person.

Sure, she’d coveted her friends’ toys as a child or wished for company she did not have in her high school days, but generally she felt that people weren’t something to get your feathers ruffled over. If a boyfriend’s eyes had gone fleeting to another girl’s skirt, she hadn’t let herself get angry, because those things were bound to happen. Jealousy wasn’t worth it.

But with Sherlock, it was another matter entirely.

She felt the unfamiliar rustle of something great and green and ugly when they sat in Buckingham Palace and Sherlock drew the first photograph from the folder Mycroft had given him, his eyes lighting over it in a way John had never witnessed from him. She took a look at it herself— beautiful woman, scantily clad, expression that said either “let me ravage you” or “let me eat you,” John wasn’t sure which— and developed an incredibly sinking feeling about the oncoming case. Her detective counterpart, however, entertained a growing look of intrigue as he flipped through the file (more skin, more “let me eat you,” and a riding crop, how nice).

“Irene Adler,” Mycroft supplied, giving a nod at the photographs. “Professionally she’s known as _The Woman_.”

“What does she do?” John enquired, though it was growing more obvious with each picture.

“She provides recreational scolding for people who enjoy that kind of thing.” Judging by his leer, Mycroft was not one of these people. “She prefers the term _dominatrix_.”

Sherlock’s eyes skipped up, brow folded. “Dominatrix?”

A sly sort of grin licked over Mycroft’s lips which signaled that he had become twelve years old again. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with _sex_.”

Defense drew Sherlock’s frame rigid, his expression going harsh. “Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

For a moment, Mycroft looked like the devil. “How would you know?”

No one else ever would have seen it, but John did— just a fleeting crack in the façade of a man who thought he was stronger than his own feelings. He was hurt. Ashamed. Yet before she could do anything about it, he’d gone off talking, asking for details and specifics, once again becoming not-a-psychopath-just-a-high-fucntioning-sociopath-do-your-research. It was all business as usual from that point on, but John would never forget that look of Sherlock’s, or just how much it twisted her heart.

As they left, John caught a glimpse of Mycroft and told Sherlock to go on without her. He gave her a bit of a grudging look, but complied, taking his leave in a flourish of overcoat. Once she was sure he’d gone completely, she hurried up to the ominous figure with the swinging umbrella, jaw set.

“Look, what you said about Sherlock—” she didn’t quite want to specify, because Mycroft should have well known what she referred to, but an infuriating look down his too-long nose resigned her to it: “When you implied that he hadn’t ever— well, been with anyone. Was that true, or were you just trying to rub him the wrong way?”

Mycroft gave that particular kind of chuckle of his which suggested he was laughing more for John’s benefit than his own. “You’ve met him, what do you think?”

John had begun to pride herself in her disability to take crap from Mycroft; she employed this skill with a particularly well-constructed glare. His grin retired into a longsuffering sigh. “As far as I know, no, he never has. And I _do_ make it a point to know as much as possible about my dear brother.”

“Right, fine.” John nodded and took her leave, but she couldn’t shake the sense that something just _bad_ was looming. Sherlock, who’d never had a relationship, ending up in a case with a beautiful dominatrix who specialized in power-plays and blackmail? It had _Not Good_ scrawled all over it.

When she returned to the flat, the floor was covered in clothes. She picked her way through the debris with a growing frown and called, “Sherlock?”

The detective in question leapt out of his bedroom in a blazing yellow coat. “John! Finally! How is this?”

She blinked at him. “What—?”

“When going into a battle, one must have the correct armor, John!” He threw the coat off his shoulders and vanished back around the corner. 

“A battle, Sherlock?”

“Irene Adler!” He appeared again, this time in a copper’s hat. He pointed to it. “Yes?”

“No,” she said blankly, and he discarded the hat. As he spent the next several minutes shuffling through various outfits, John found herself forcibly reminded of a teenage girl going through clothes before a first date, which couldn’t be a good sign. But more than her worry for Sherlock’s handle on the case was a slowly-brewing feeling of _envy_ — surely, he’d never made this kind of a fuss over _her_. Some woman he’d never met had his pants in a wad, and John? He told John to go buy milk three times a day and didn’t even notice when she left the flat.

John was already really, _really_ sick of Irene Alder, and they hadn’t even met yet.

Sherlock finally settled on his costume— just his usual suit and coat, after all that— and they were off. In the cab he was oddly silent, telling her only that they were going to visit Ms. Adler and at some point he’d need her to set off the fire alarms. She took this information with the usual pinch of confusion, but not so much confusion as when they stepped out of the cab and he said, “Punch me.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear? Punch me. In the face.” He gestured to one sculpted cheekbone with a nod.

John frowned. “I always hear ‘punch me’ when you talk, but generally it’s subtext.”

A huff from Sherlock sent plume of mist into the frigid air. “Come on!”

“I’m not going to punch you, Sherlock.” John crossed her arms to punctuate the point, and the detective threw his head back to groan. When his head came back, there was a threat in his eyes.

“I’ll punch you, first.”

John snorted. “No, you won’t.”

He did.

John had punched people before, but this was the first time a good clock from her little fist had actually sent someone to the ground.

“Brilliant, Jo—!” he didn’t quite finish, because she chose this moment to put him in a rather affective choke-hold.

“You forget, Sherlock,” she cried, “I was in the army! I _killed_ people!”

“You— were a— doctor!” he retched. She hit him again.

“I had bad days!”

“Yes— ohfcourse—” his speech slurred, and though she had effectively been angered to the point of homicide, she figured it would be best not to let him asphyxiate and transferred the lock-hold to his arms. She thought about letting him go, but a taste of blood in her mouth (he’d hit her that hard!?) refreshed her vindication.

“Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to hit women!?”

“Obviously—” he coughed, “— _women_ can take care of themselves!” She paused, gave this a good thought, and sighed.

“Right, true enough.” Releasing his hands, she stood off his back and offered a hand to help him up, which he ignored. “Friends... don’t generally punch one another,” she incurred, already feeling guilty. The bruise unfurling on his lovely cheek told her she’d gone rather too far.

“I suspect they do when it’s a matter of national importance,” Sherlock observed, whipping off his scarf. Joan watched with interest as he produced a thin wisp of paper and affixed it into his collar like a priest, then barked a laugh.

“Bugger that! You don’t care about national security.”

Her detective grinned like the madman he was. “True enough, but the case is _interesting_.” And there it was again, that light in his eyes. Kid in a candy shop. She wished he’d look at her like that.

When they reached Irene Adler’s home, she excused herself to find some first-aid. Sherlock seemed at peace enough with their tussle earlier, but she felt awful for letting it get so out-of-control. The least she could do was patch him up before he went into the fray. Once she found a bowl and a rag and some ice, she allowed Ms. Adler’s assistant to direct her back to the sitting room, where she found Sherlock. 

And Irene Adler. Who was sitting on Sherlock. _Naked_.

“...Did I miss something?”

The Woman looked to her with a smile that somehow managed to be simultaneously elegant and dirty. “Please, sit down! If you’d like some tea, I can call the maid.”

Sherlock sniffed as if he was disinterested. A glance from him to the naked woman, and John knew he was anything but. “I had some at the palace.”

Ms. Adler beamed. “I know.”

“Clearly.”

“I had tea, too, at the palace, if anyone’s interested!” John interjected, and it sounded a bit too desperate, but she couldn’t be arsed to care.

Irene grinned and rose off of Sherlock (yes! good! thank you!). “Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” She dropped into an armchair, crossing her miles-long legs delicately. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

One of Sherlock’s brows quirked. “You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face.”

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In this case, it’s yourself. And somebody loves you...” Her eyes traveled momentarily to John, who seized up in an ungodly mixture of horror and rage, before skipping back to Sherlock. “If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth, too.”

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped John. “Could you put something one, please?” Then, proffering the rag that was supposed to be fore Sherlock’s face, “A napkin, maybe?”

Irene’s grin turned positively predatorial. “Are you feeling exposed?”

John knew she’d never gone so red in her life. She sputtered a bit, then gasped out, “Look, you—”

“John, will you leave us a moment?” Sherlock gave her a meaningful look that said, _Just stick to the plan. I’ve got this. I’m in control._

John gave him a look that said, _The hell you are,_ and left the room.

Outside, she leaned against the wall and frowned resolutely, crossed arms clenching a little tighter at every snippet of conversation she caught.

“If I wanted to look at pictures of naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.”

She angrily snatched up a magazine from a table and readied the lighter.

“Brainy is the new sexy.”

Sherlock made an audible stuttering sound and John lit the magazine, some disgustingly teenage part of her pretending it was Irene Adler’s hair.

“No, you’re going to tell me where they are.”

That was her cue. Got up on top of the table and waved the makeshift torch around by the smoke detector until the alarm went off. Cursing at the volume, she got down off the table and stamped out the smoking magazine against the floor. The plan had apparently succeeded (didn’t it, always?) because she could hear Sherlock giving one of his condescendingly intelligent speeches— “Amazing how fire brings out one’s priorities!” so it was very tempting to pause and give herself a pat on the back. 

But that was when the Americans were busting in, guns blazing.  
The whole ordeal went downhill from there.

Thirty minutes later, Lestrade was helping her carry an unconscious Sherlock to the car. His legs had never seemed so long as when she was attempting to keep them from dragging on the concrete, and though in normal circumstances she might’ve found it funny, her current mood warranted a glare for Lestrade when he whipped out his phone to document the moment.

“Oh, come on, it’s priceless!” he cried in defense, gesturing to Sherlock’s lolling head. John was not amused.

“That woman _beat_ him. She was actually better than him. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The two of them stood back and observed the thoroughly _beaten_ consulting detective, and Lestrade shrugged.

“It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

John wanted to add, “Yeah, but it shouldn’t have been _her_ ,” but she was aware enough to know how juvenile that sounded. It wasn’t worth mentioning— in any case, Sherlock was too far gone. Once he woke up, all he’d care about was the case.

The case, and Irene Adler.

Any hope she had of the whole thing blowing over evaporated at the first over-erotic _“Oh!”_ from Sherlock’s phone the next morning. John put down her coffee and blinked.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sherlock avoided eye-contact and lifted his paper a bit. “Text alert. Means I’ve got a text.”

“That’s not usually the noise it makes.”

“Someone must have gotten a hold of it and personalized their tone,” the detective said from behind his newspaper. 

“Hmm, and who could have done that? It was in your coat, wasn’t it?” Sherlock didn’t see her damning glare, instead pretending to find interest in an article. The phone moaned again.

From the other room came a rather ruffled cry from Mrs. Hudson: “That noise is rather rude, isn’t it?”

“You know, I’d say it is. Why don’t you change it?” As John leaned forward in accusation, Sherlock drew the paper so close to his face that there was no physical way he could be reading it. _“You like it too much, don’t you?”_ she wanted to ask. And she almost did, but Mycroft (bless him) chose that moment to appear and (screw him) say, “A word with you, Joan?”

She continued to glare at Sherlock and his newspaper for a long moment before standing with a huff. Turning to Mycroft, she snapped “What?” to which he responded with one of his condescending looks.

“On the stairwell, if you don’t mind.” John nodded and followed him out, frown deepening when he pulled the flat’s door closed behind him. A lazy spiral of dust became evident in the lowlight, a setting slightly less dramatic than Mycroft’s usual selections. Indeed, he lacked his customary air of mystery, instead favoring her with an expression she could almost call human.

“I need you to keep an eye on him,” he murmured.

John scoffed. “What, for money? Because you _worry constantly_?”

The sincerity in Mycroft’s gaze didn’t waver. That scared her. “No. As I’ve said, Dr. Watson, it is best that Sherlock stay out of this, not only for the nation’s wellbeing, but for his own.” He produced a pained sort of look, as if he’d eaten something bad. “Really, I do worry about him. He hasn’t an _idea_ what he’s doing or what he’s up against.”

“And... what’s that he’s up against?”

“The most cunning opponent he’ll likely ever have.”

Annoyance twisted John’s frown deeper. “That’s giving her a lot of credit, isn’t it? What about Moriarty? Wasn’t he worse? What’s this woman got against Sherlock that’s so dangerous?”

“Love,” said Mycroft, and John felt herself die a little.

She didn’t grasp the magnitude of the situation until the night of The Christmas Party, after Sherlock had made his exit and the guests with him, when she received a phone call from the infamous brother.

“He took the cigarette.”

She swore. “And you’re sure tonight’s a danger night?”

“Watch him,” was all Mycroft said, and hung up. Sighing, John turned to Mrs. Hudson. 

“Did you search his room?”

Their landlady nodded. “Put his socks back, too. But I didn’t find anything.” She put a distressed hand to her lips. “You don’t really think he’s still—”

“No, no, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think so,” John smiled, patting Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder delicately. When she seemed unconvinced, John drew slightly shorter woman into a hug and released her with another firm pat, this time on the back. “I trust Sherlock, don’t you?”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Not really, dear. He’s a sweet boy, he really is, but...” she shook her head. “I’ll leave you to him. Good night!”

So John was left to her own devices until Sherlock arrived home a few hours later, the vacant something in his gaze seeming practically obscene. He looked like a child whose dog had run into traffic— that just wasn’t right, not for Sherlock.

John shut the book she was reading. “You okay?”

His eyes scanned the flat, almost idly, as if only habit drove him. Finally, he droned, “I hope you didn’t disturb my sock index this time,” and took his leave.

“No— Sherlock, wait!” She didn’t trust him, really, not enough to leave him alone. He turned to face her when she caught up with him, a little breathless in her distress. “Hey, it’s Christmas. You go sit on the couch, I’ve got a gift for you. ‘Kay?” His eyes passed over her in a long, skeptical look before he brushed by, heading for the living room.

“Fine.” The couch gave a creak of protest as he flopped down on it. “Quickly.”

“Yes, good, I’ll be right back!” John rushed upstairs, nearly stumbling over the top two steps, and dove into the bottom of her closet. She came up with a crudely-wrapped parcel (she’d always been awful at wrapping, especially for Christmas) and prayed Sherlock would still be there as she took the steps two at a time back down. Said detective indeed remained laying splayed over the couch, glaring at the ceiling.

“This is for you,” she declared, presenting the package. “For Christmas. I made it.” Sherlock stared at the parcel, lethargy practically etching cataracts over his eyes. John cleared her throat. “Open it.”

He took the gift, held it gingerly. The look which he then regarded her with was familiar; it was how she looked at patients before she told them they had cancer, or only six months left, or that they weren’t going to be able to save that leg. He knew something she didn’t, and it obviously hurt, but damn it if he wasn’t bloody Sherlock Holmes, the man who’d never say what he was really feeling. It set her teeth on edge.

“Go ahead, open it.” The repetition was useless, but she couldn’t take his face that way, not for much longer. “Told you, it’s yours.”

His look subsided into an exasperated sigh and his eyes fell away as he delved into the brittle paper. The whole affair was undone in moments, so that he was left with a poorly-conceived black scarf amidst a mess of brown paper. He lifted it from the wrapping debris, brow creasing.

“Guess I didn’t have to mention it’s homemade, that’d be obvious to _Anderson_.” Her grasp at humor didn’t seem to have much of an effect, so she shuffled awkwardly for a moment and went on. “Anyway, I’m not so brilliant at knitting, but it should be really warm, and your old one’s getting ratty, so I thought...” Sherlock replaced the scarf in its wrapping and carefully folded it back up before handing it back to her. He nodded with what she supposed was intended to at least _look_ like gratitude, and as he went to go, John couldn’t help herself.

“Sherlock, I’m— I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can—”

“Don’t.”

She stood frozen, staring at his back, and realized she’d never felt so helpless in her life.

“Okay,” she whispered. He left her there alone, the chill of the flat biting into her toes.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was New Year’s Eve when Irene Adler rose from the dead.

John supposed it would be bad form to kill her again.

“Tell him you’re alive,” was the first thing she said, and Ms. Adler just laughed at her.

“He’d come after me.”

“ _I’ll_ come after you if you don’t! You know what you’ve done to him!?”

“Oh, I’ve _done_ much more to many a weaker man. I’m sure he’s fine.”

John sputtered angrily before she was able to get her bearings. Was this woman serious!? “Look, what about you? I saw you _dead_ on a _slab_ — how are you here?”

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep,” Ms. Adler chuckled, burrowing into the fur of her voluptuous overcoat. John had seen something similar once on a nature program, before a fox tore out the throat of a rival.

“Oh, and I suppose you know what the record-keeper likes?”

“Maybe. I needed to disappear.”

“But— Sherlock. You fooled bloody _Sherlock_.” He’d known it was her. Known from _not her face_ , as Molly reported. John hadn’t been able to bring herself to anger over it before, with Sherlock so heartbroken, but now that Ms. Adler was alive it was easy enough to start getting _livid_.

The Woman gave a supercilious laugh and a shake of her head. “People see what they want to see, even him. But I’m letting you see what’s real, Joan, because I need a favor.”

John barked a sarcastic laugh. “Uh, no.” She turned to leave.

“It’s for his safety,” called Ms. Adler, effectively stopping John in her tracks. “I left something dangerous with him for safe-keeping, and now I need it back.”

John wheeled back around to face the taller (prettier sexier more-attractive-to-Sherlock) woman, mouth set flat. “Answer’s still no.”

“I told you, it’s for his own safety.”

“Oh, right. His _safety_.” She looked up at the ceiling, counted to five. Back to Ms. Adler. “Look, how about this? How about you go ahead and die for real, or tell Sherlock you’re not really dead.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t!?” John gave a hysterical throw of her arms. “The hell, you can’t. You know what? I’ll tell him, myself, and I still won’t help you.”

Ms. Alder breathed a long-suffering sigh, like some distressed damsel in a makeup commercial who couldn’t find just the right shade of blush for her alabaster skin. “What do I say?”

“What do you _usually_ say!? You’ve been texting him an awful lot!” Fifty-seven times, if they were being exact. John had never hated a sound more than that stupid, _stupid_ moan.

“Nothing special,” Ms. Adler shrugged. “Just the normal things.”

“There is no normal in this case,” John fumed. “What have you been telling him?”

The Woman whipped out her phone, tapped a few times at the screen and read off with some measure of disinterest: “ ‘How are you?’ ‘Let’s have dinner.’ ‘I like your funny hat.’ ‘I’m not hungry, let’s have dinner.’”

John blanched. “You... _flirted_ with Sherlock!?”

Ms. Adler shrugged. “Flirted _at_ him, more like. He didn’t reply.”

“No—” that was worse than if he _had_ replied. “No, Sherlock always replies to everything. The man will outlive God trying to get the last word.”

A smile. “I guess I’m special, then.”

John’s throat was dry— she didn’t know if it was anger or defeat. Probably a generous helping of both. “You know what? You probably are. You’re pretty bloody important to him. He— he’s been composing sad music since you died,” air quotes around the last word, “for godsakes!”

“You’re awfully worried about him,” Ms. Adler observed, one edge of her mouth taking an impish upturn. “You sure you’d rather not keep him to yourself? The two of you do make a lovely pair.”

That was it. This Woman had just jerked the rug right out from under John. “Y— look, you.” Her throat seized up, teeth clenching. “We’re not a couple.”

Laughing, “Oh, of _course_ you’re not. That’s why you’re so jealous.”

“No! Look, I’m not jealous because I don’t have any bloody feelings for Sherlock! I’m just worried about him because you’ve gone and screwed him over, and you need to _set that right_!” She gasped a bit, fists set, daring Irene Adler with every fiber of her being to be contradictory. After a long, amused look, The Woman tapped out a message on her phone before holding it out for John to see.

“There. ‘I’m not dead, let’s have dinner.’ Good?”

John let herself uncoil, let the intensity simmer off. “Right. Yeah. Good.”

And, then, _“Oh!”_  
John whipped around the corner just in time to see Sherlock’s coattails swallowed into the shadows.

“You shouldn’t,” Irene advised her, and John had never been angrier to follow good advice.

“Right, just... you— you there?” She pointed specifically at Ms. Adler, in case there was any confusion. “You had better stay away from Sherlock unless you can be good, you hear me?” If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. It was simple enough.

There was a long pause from The Woman as she seemed to contemplate, whether in earnest or in mocking it was challenging to tell. “We’ll see.”

John left at that, never so infuriated in her all her days. The cab ride home left her rife with frustration, so much so that in her frenzy she hardly noticed the note on the door (probably for the post or something, what did she care?).

But she knew something was wrong the moment she stepped into the flat. Mrs. Hudson should have puttered out to greet her, or at least called, “Hello, Joan, dear!” No such thing happened. The silence was eerily pervading. And more than that— Sherlock should’ve been there. Shooting something. Playing sour arpeggios. _Anything_. The quiet was sickening.

“Sherlock!” Though she was unarmed, her trigger finger itched towards the small of her back as she ascended the stairs two at a time, breathless with adrenalin by the time she burst into the flat. Sherlock sat nonchalantly just inside the door, whole and unharmed, with a gun balanced on his knee. John could have died of relief.

“You okay?” Then she saw Mrs. Hudson, shaken and trembling by her lonesome on the couch. “Sh— What happened!?” Sherlock gestured with the weapon to the middle of the room, where there sat the American agent from Ms. Adler’s house. Duct-taped to a chair. “Wait, what!?” But she connected the dots even as Sherlock explained: 

“This American kidnapped Mrs. Hudson. I’m simply restoring balance to the world.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson!” John ducked down by her, taking her hands.

The landlady assured her, “I’m fine, dear—” though that trembling voice spoke of anything but “fine.”

John nearly shivered with rage, turning her sights on the hostage. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” she snapped, taking Mrs. Hudson into her arms. “Doing this to poor—” 

“John, mercenaries don’t care.” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the offender even as he said this. “This is the man who suggested you be shot, remember.”

Oh, John remembered. Cold barrel on the back of her neck. Stifling panic. _Pleasegodletmelivepleasegodletmelivepleasegodletmelive_. The alarm on Sherlock’s face, that “No—wait!” that would have to stand in for a thousand nonexistent I-love-yous.

“Yeah,” murmured John, “I remember.”

“Good. Take Mrs. Hudson downstairs,” the detective instructed, rising, never releasing the CIA agent from his sights. “Take care of her. I’ll be with you shortly.” Some miniscule part of John warned, _You probably shouldn’t leave him with this guy, ‘cause he’ll kill him_ , but the rest of her was satisfied to leave him to it. Let Sherlock at him— that’s what he got for messing with their landlady.

“Come on, Mrs. Hudson, we’ll get you patched up.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’m still fine—” she mumbled as they stood, a telltale sign of oncoming shock. “I just need a bit of a breather, that’s all…”

“Of course,” John murmured, and cast a last glance at Sherlock over her shoulder before pulling the door shut behind them. Once down in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, she poured them both glasses of water and tried to get her to sit with no avail, eventually ending up doing the treatment while standing. Her weathered cheek winced at a bit of alcohol on an open cut (how could those awful, _awful_ men even _think_ of touching Mrs. Hudson?) and John whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, I know it stings.”

“It’s just—” Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth to hide the slightest hiccup. “I don’t know what I would have done, he had a gun—”

“Oh, no, no, Mrs. Hudson—” John took her and held her, held her though she was too strong to shed any real tears. What a wild, funny woman. “Listen, it’s okay. You’re okay. Sherlock will always protect be here to protect us. It’ll be fine.” Of course it’ll be fine, John. Just keep saying that.

It was at that moment that a colossal bang resounded from just outside the window. The two jerked apart, John rushing immediately to the sill to see outside as Mrs. Hudson cried, “Oh, that was right on my bins!”

When John looked out she found a particularly jumbled up CIA agent groaning over the remains of Mrs. Hudson’s bins; she pulled the curtains shut. Mrs. Hudson began to ask, “Wha—?” but John just said, “It’s all fine, ignore it. Like I said, Sherlock can handle it.” 

“I suppose...” Mrs. Hudson sat when John pulled out a chair, perching across the table and resuming her nursework.

“Here, talk to me.”

Their landlady swallowed. “Well, I was cleaning when they came in—”

“No, not about that.” The was another great clatter, this time rather like someone was dragging a wild animal through the hall outside. John tried not to acknowledge it. “Why don’t you tell me about that fellow you’ve been seeing? What’s his name? Giles? Riles?”

“Kyle,” corrected Mrs. Hudson, “and we’ve stopped seeing each other. The sod lied to me about his gambling, can you believe it?” She shook her head at such a disgrace, hair becoming further dislodged from its style. “Sherlock tipped me off, in fact—”

Another _bang_ outside. Mrs. Hudson cringed, but John knew it was not for the victim’s sake.

“We’ll get you some new bins,” she assured the older woman, smiling.

“O-oh, good, good. But— as I was saying, Sherlock told my about the gambling. And speaking of Sherlock,” she leaned forward with a confidential air, “I’ve been thinking: since that _woman_ has gone, why don’t you and Sherlock go on and get together?” If it weren’t for the sincerity in the landlady’s face, John would’ve assumed it was shock-induced humor. But this was serious. Entirely serious.

“I— well, Mrs. Hudson, you see, it’s complicated, and—”

 _Bang!_  
There wouldn’t be much left of those bins.

“Oh deary, it’s not complicated at all,” Mrs. Hudson tittered, leaning back in her chair as John finished the last bit of patching-up. “You just don’t see—”

“Hey. Look, thank you for the advice, really, but Sherlock and I...” John’s head shook. “We’re not ever going to be a couple, Mrs. Hudson. Neither of us want to be; it wouldn’t make sense.”

For a moment, the landlady looked at her like a knowing mother, the skeptical dip of her brow and slightly amused curve of her lip saying, _Don’t say I didn’t tell you so_. It was irksome at best, but John had to admit, this was the first person she’d met who combated stress with matchmaking.

“Alright, dear.” Mrs. Hudson took John’s hand and patted it. “Whatever you say.”

_BANG!_

It was a matter of moments before sirens began to moan in the distance, growing until the sound alighted just outside the flat. John speculated as she idly stroked Mrs. Hudson’s hand, who leaned back in her chair with a deep, long sigh. Then the sirens were gone, and in came Sherlock, casually as if he’d just returned from delivering the post.

“Now that that’s taken care of,” he said as he wiped his feet. “You were excellent, Mrs. Hudson.” He bent into her refrigerator and plucked out a small cake; the landlady gave a tired smile.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Though actually seeing Sherlock eat of his own violation was a distraction, John shook herself free. “Hey, we’re glad all’s well, but Mrs. Hudson, I think— I think you should take a vacation. Get out of Baker Street.” This lady was too kind to become a casualty of Sherlock’s high-risk games. 

“Of course not, John, that’s out of the question. Mrs. Hudson is highly invaluable. Tell me— how _did_ you get it?”

Mrs. Hudson startled John with a laugh, though it seemed draining. “They thought I was having a cry,” she chuckled, and fished the infamous phone out of her bra. Sherlock plucked it from her fingertips and gave John the first smile in ages (even if it was a see-look-I-was-right smile).

“See, John? Mrs. Hudson, leave Baker Street?” He wrapped an arm her brittle-seeming frame and hugged. “England would fall.”

John couldn’t help but agree. “Okay, I give in. I guess it would.” Then, lifting her glass of water. “To Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock followed, taking Mrs. Hudson’s glass and raising it for her.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he agreed. They drank, and then stood in silence. John supposed they were both too worried to leave their landlady— she was a trooper, to be sure, but it wasn’t every day she was kidnapped and held at gunpoint.

“Oh, you two go on, now,” Mrs. Hudson said after some time, shooing them with one hand and leaning the side of her face on the other. “Told you, I’m fine, you both get some rest...”

It was hard to argue with that. Once they were back in their own flat, John did her best not to mention the open window or the rumpled carpet or the slight blood trail on the floor. Instead she smoothed these things out, quietly, then set water to boil for tea.

“So,” she murmured, as if this were an acceptable situation for small talk. “Eventful day.”

Sherlock, standing at the window, snorted.

John looked up from the tea-making. “What are you going to do?”

And just like that damned _Woman_ he said, “We’ll see.”

And see, John did.  
She saw Sherlock lying pacing stiffly before his chair when she got home. She saw his growing agitation as Irene didn’t return his contact (though, to be fair, “Happy New Year” was a bit of a limp proposition). She saw his shoulder straining to the point of sprain as he attacked his violin. She saw him winding up like a coil unable to spring; sooner or later, he was going to snap right down the middle. She tried to get him to talk about it, more than once— “So, that Adler woman...” “Are you going to do something with that phone? Give it back, maybe?” —but he was, typical Sherlock, tight-lipped on all matters Adler. 

While this was an improvement over melodramatic mourning Sherlock, it was getting detestable. Irene still had yet to show her face directly to Sherlock since her “death,” but he fixated on her. It wasn’t overt (almost internal, in fact) but John saw it, saw the oh-so-rare slide of vacancy in his eyes when he thought of her. She couldn’t stand it. Thinking herself previously above jealousy, she was furious for allowing Irene to get under her skin. And yet, as long as she existed in light of a woman who made goddesses seem sub-par, how could she not feel at least a tug of envy? Sherlock was quite simply the most extraordinary person she had ever met, and though she had no romantic feelings for him (yes, good, keep telling yourself that, John) it was hard to stomach it when some woman arose from London’s criminal underground and absorbed all of his attentions.

Or when said Woman, you know, showed up in Sherlock’s bed.

“We’ve got a client,” the detective told her, though John wouldn’t have used that word (nuisance was a more suitable coinage. Or parasite).

Irene rose from bed, yawning, “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Who?” Sherlock inquired.

“Killers.”

That was all John could take. “Look, I’m— I’m going out. I’ll leave you two to it, I’m sure whatever you’ve got to sort out would be best done alone.” Sherlock uttered a vague “John?” as she turned to go but it didn’t stop her. It was Irene who met her in the doorway.

“Not worried about leaving me to him, then?” Even leaning in the doorway, draped in nothing but a bathrobe and bed-hair, she really was stunning. John had never felt so incredibly short and plain in her life as she did there, standing in the shadow of The Woman.

“No,” she said with reluctance. “And, look, he talks to me even when I’m not here, so watch out for that. If he gets bored after you finish whatever business you’ve got on, turn on the telly and it’ll keep him occupied.”

Irene raised a brow. “He doesn’t seem like the telly-watching type.”

“He’s not. He yells at it.”

“You treat him like a child, but you care so much... almost too much. you’re sure—?”

“I’m not in love with him!” It came harsher and more quickly than she’d meant.

Ms. Adler smirked. “Then I’m not intruding...”

“Look, he’s not one of your playthings.” John crowded up into the more magnificent woman’s space, pointing an accusatory finger at her ample chest. “I told you, there’s never been anyone for him. He’s never done this before, so don’t you dare hurt him or I.” She jabbed her sternum. “Will.” Another jab. “End.” Jab. “You.”

There was a long stare-off, two cobras coiled to strike, before Irene chuckled. “Strong words for someone so not in love.”

John left with that.  
She went out with her arms bundled angrily around her against the cold; in her rush, she’d forgotten a coat. But she wasn’t going back there, no way. Some part of her was horrified she’d walk in on them _doing_ things, or worse, doing nothing at all. She’d been practically ready to suggest baby names just at the sight of them looking at each other, and she wasn’t prepared to know what would happen now that Irene wanted more than one thing Sherlock was reluctant to give. Some part of her wondered if she’d find her consulting detective pinned up to the wall when she returned.

Some part of her wondered if she should return at all.

To pass the time she made a trip to Angelo’s. The owner, himself, greeted her with a hearty handshake and a hurtful, “Where’s Sherlock?” to which she replied, “Not here. I’ll have some spaghetti.” 

An hour later she sat before the uneaten entrée, swirling it about with her fork. She’d at least expected a text, or a call, or maybe even a sign in tomato paste on the wall— _something_. Anything. By now it was liable that Irene Adler had eaten Sherlock alive.

A buzz from her cellphone nearly stopped her heart. Expecting Sherlock, she was equally miffed and surprised to find Mycroft’s name at the end of the text. It read: 

_Take care of him. Details shortly, I’m otherwise engaged currently.  
-MH_

John rushed back to the flat to find Sherlock gone to liquid on the couch, glaring at the ceiling. He wore his suit, but now it didn’t become him, as if he were twelve and it was a size too big. She approached with caution.

“Sherlock? Mycroft texted, so I...” His obstinately ignorant expression said it wasn’t worth continuing. “Hey, what happened with Adler?”

Sherlock gave an almighty huff and turned so that his face was pressed into the couch.

“Oh,” said John, and though she should’ve been happy, she wasn’t, not quite. Sherlock had been changed, if only just a little. Her Sherlock was now Irene’s Sherlock, too, and it hurt.

It hurt enough that when, months later, Mycroft gave her the choice of giving her detective the truth or a lie, she told him love was still alive.

“Yeah, got herself into a witness protection program,” she explained, trying to smile, trying to act like it was ironic and not fake. _See? she’s okay,_ she wanted to say. _Things can go back to how they were before, because she’s not in the way anymore._

But Irene would always be in the way, or so John thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the pseudo-false chapter update! i decided the last chapter needed to be split up (it nearly doubled the rest of the fic in length) and i added the kidnapping of Mrs. Hudson, because i'm dumb and forgot all about it in the original write-up. it was a pivotal plot point as well as an insanely important event in Sherlock's character development, so it needed to be here.


	6. Chapter 6

“I understand the implications, but the metaphor is too bafflingly stupid to be of any consequence— I mean, _really_ , why would I want to have dinner when I’m not hungry?”

John made a point of avoiding Sherlock’s eyes and elected not to mention that he sat here with her, at dinner, _not eating_. The detective had been on the edge during the four months since Irene’s death, and he wasn’t the only one. Though John felt the vague nag of guilt at not having told the truth concerning Ms. Adler, it was overpowered by the unbridled jealousy which rose in her whenever Sherlock wondered aloud, “Do you suppose Lestrade would give me the case if we found someone who knows what he likes,” or, “John, why don’t you ever wear heels? I was under the impression that women wore heels.” For the most part she did well to ignore it, but she could only take so much.

She pushed back from the table and stood. “I’m going to go shower, ‘kay?” 

Sherlock gave her a skeptical eyebrow raise. “You’ve already showered, today.”

“Yes, well, I’m showering again. Those sewers were disgusting.” Though it was true the sewers had been awful and she’d only gone in because it seemed necessary at the time (“Sherlock, you’re _sure_ this is the best way to catch him?” “Don’t question genius, John!”), the first shower had been enough to do away with the grime. At this point, she just wanted away from Sherlock.

As she took her dishes and scraped them off into the sink, his chair scraped the tile behind her. Assuming he was leaving, she nearly dropped her plate when his voice crooned from somewhere over her head: “You’re upset.”

“God, Sherlock!” She let the plate clatter into the sink, pressing a hand to her jumping heart. “Personal space?” Head cocked a bit, he took a step backwards. “Right, good, thanks.” She gave a curt nod and attempted to step past, but he was in front of her again.

“ _John_ ,” he implored. “You’re angry.”

“I know! Are you just going to keep stating facts, or do you actually have something to say?”

“I just—” his mouth tweaked and he stopped. Lips parting, he started, “I was—” then “It’s very—” before just staring, staring like she was a dead body with something to tell him. He couldn’t just _ask_. That must have been too easy; he had to deduce it, didn’t he, had to siphon it out of the facts, let her hair or her pushed-up sleeves or her bare feet tell him.

That was all she could stand.  
“Look, I told you I’m going to shower, so let me through so I can _take my bloody shower_.” He stood in her way for a few more seconds before stepping aside. John stormed past, beyond caring that her meter-and-a-half-tall tantrum looked incredibly childish. The bathroom door all but slammed behind her, and once she was alone, she took a moment to heave in deep breaths of _control yourself!_ before beginning to tear off her clothes. She didn’t want to be like this, frustrated, irrationally upset, but with him acting the way he was it was a miracle she hadn’t pushed him down the stairs yet. Irene was gone and Sherlock would never acknowledge that, not really. He never talked about her directly but his off-hand comments and musings said he no longer felt like a jilted lover as he had when Ms. Adler first left— he was practically pining, now.

But why shouldn’t he be?

“You would have been good for each other,” John murmured, choosing to ignore how mad it was that she was standing half-naked in a bathroom, talking to a dead woman. “Why did you have to go and be a complete bitch about it?” Though Sherlock had remained tight-lipped as to _The Woman_ case’s ending, Mycroft had given John all of the details, from “He calls you The Virgin,” to “Because I took your pulse,” to “Sorry about dinner,” and it killed her that the whole thing had turned out so badly for Sherlock. Some awful, teenagerish corner of her brain said the whole thing wouldn’t have ended so badly if he had just fallen in love with _her_ , but she’d given up on that the very first time they met, just like she’d recently given up on lying to herself; she loved Sherlock Holmes. Not like a flatmate or a friend or even a brother, but like a true love, like someone she wanted to be able to wake up next to in ten, thirty, fifty years.

“This is stupid.” She said it to herself this time, a grand verdict as she slipped under the shower’s warm spray. The cathartic beat of the stream was a bit of a relief, a sort of mindless distraction she allowed herself to melt into. She wondered if this was even a taste of what it was like for Sherlock, with that great system of a brain running constantly. No wonder he didn’t sleep. He probably couldn’t. “Oh, what am I going to do with you, Sherlock?” Her head fell back against the wall, allowing the water to break in little falls across her skin, a river here pooling in the dips of her clavicles, spilling there over the curves of her chest. Gingerly she touched her lips, wondered if she’d ever get kissed again. Already she knew there would be no moving on from Sherlock. He was a bloody nuclear explosion— the light was brilliant when it hit, but afterward there would be nothing but wasteland.   
The whole thing was hopeless.

She shut the water off, unsure quite how long she’d been in but certain it would be obvious to the Consulting Busybody that she hadn’t actually done any washing. There’d probably be more staring and more questions unasked and more John thinking, “Why me?”

She took a quick glance in the mirror to brush her hair down and turned to pick up her clothes. They weren’t on the counter where she thought she’d left them, giving her a brief fright of _ohgod did Sherlock come in and take them?_ She realized, then, that she must have tossed them in the hamper, which she went to open. “Oh, Sherlock, bugger you!” The one time he had actually put his clothes in the hamper, they were saturated in sewer filth, and said filth had leaked into everything else in the basket including her own clothes. “Brilliant,” she hissed, turning to look for options. There were a few towels but she really didn’t want to go out in a towel, because given her flatmate’s current fixations he’d probably say something awkward about it. There was also Sherlock’s bathrobe. Equally as awkward, though considerably less revealing. With a heavy sigh she chose the lesser of two evils and slid into the robe, tying it about her waist.

As she placed her hand on the knob and cracked the door a few inches to peek out, anxiety flared in her. She really didn’t want to go out dressed only in this, although now that she thought about it, it wasn’t as if Sherlock didn’t know her by heart. After all, if he’d gotten sufficient information to identify Irene from _not her face_ in just a few glances, what had he gotten from John in the year they’d coexisted? Somewhat thrilled but mostly horrified at the idea, she couldn’t help but realize he was well-acquainted with the convex and concave planes of her figure (more convex than concave if she was being candid). She was fit enough, but that did little to affect the sudden Sherlock-induced hyperawareness she was experiencing. It irked her, as she’d never been especially concerned or conscious in terms of her appearance— who was he to alter her convictions so entirely?

“This is stupid,” she hissed again. It was becoming her motto. Everything was just stupid, and she was sick of it. Resolutely she stepped out of the bathroom, robe pulled tight around her, and attempted to get to the stairs without being seen.

No such luck.

“Oh, John! Come here a moment, we need you.”  
She turned and was startled stiff at the sight of Lestrade standing there with Sherlock, both staring.

She growled through her teeth, “Sherlock! I’m. In. A. Bathrobe!”

“No worries,” he dismissed her with a wave, “nothing either of us haven’t seen before.”

Lestrade raised his hands in a gesture of innocence as John sputtered blankly, pulling the robe around herself more tightly.

“No!” she snapped.

Sherlock scoffed. “Please, John, it’s not like you’re _naked_.”

“I’ll be downstairs when you two are done,” interjected Lestrade, creeping toward the door like any sudden movements would get him pounced.

“Ridiculous, we’re fine!”

“No, we’re not. Goodbye, Greg!” Lestrade took the cue and bowed out, leaving the detective and his blogger fuming at each other.

“Why are you calling him Greg?” 

Seriously? “That’s his name, Sherlock!”

His look of shock would’ve been funny if not for John’s boiling anger. “It is?”

“Yes!”

“Why are you calling him by his first name?” he inquired, eyes narrowing.

John threw up one arm, still keeping the robe shut with the other. “People do that! It’s nice!”

He glared. “Not for any _other_ reason?”

“Look—” Wait. _Wait_. He had to be joking. “Hold on, are you honestly getting bothered when I you think I might be with Lestrade, after your stint with The bloody Woman!?”

“What woman?”

Wow, really? “Oh, don’t give me that!” John came at him, poked a finger at his chest. “ _The_ Woman! The only woman you’ve ever loved!”

His expression passed from shock to indignance to a frightening sort of anger. “And just how did you make _that_ inference?”

“Mycroft said—”

Sherlock threw his hands to the heavens. “And there’s our problem! Mycroft may be an intuitive bastard, but he’s been wrong before and he’s wrong now, so—”

“How do you mean?”

“She wasn’t the only woman, John—”

“What—”

“You are.”

Silence. They stared.

“I— what?”

Sherlock drew in a deep, trembling breath. “You’re the only woman.”

She couldn’t speak. Her mouth opened several times, but her vocal cords were taunt with the suppression of either a girlish scream or an overwhelmed sob, she wasn’t really sure which. There was worry on Sherlock’s face and she wanted to dispel it, but even if her throat had been working it wouldn’t have mattered because her mind was drained by shock. His hand moved like he was going to reach out and touch her, but instead he said her name, the artificial coldness in his voice doing nothing to fool her in light of his lost-puppy face. “John?”

“How long?” she choked out.

Mouth tightening, his strong voice gave a little towards emotion. “Since our first case.”

She blinked. “When I shot the cabbie?”

His head shook. “No, no, before that. When you didn’t assume I was the killer.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

“When I found the pink case, I assured you that I hadn’t killed her, but you didn’t need assuring. You never thought for a moment that I was the murderer, because you had complete faith in me. Everyone has assumed that I’m the perpetrator at one point or another, except for you. You’ve always believed in me. It’s extraordinary. No one has ever been so loyal or such an excellent conductor of my genius, simply by being _normal_ — but John, you’re not normal, you’re brilliant because you’ll punch me in the face and kill for me and die for me, and I don’t—” his voice failed him, “—I don’t do this, I don’t say these things because it’s stupid to say these things, and I need you to tell me to shut up before I—”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” 

They stared at each other for approximately seven more seconds before John stepped forward, hardly able to take a sustaining breath, and said, “I love you, too.”

And then Sherlock Holmes kissed her. It was a timid sort of kiss, close-mouthed and chaste, so unlike this man who blazed headfirst into every new territory. He kissed her almost as if he was afraid. She rose onto the tips of her toes, allowing him to straighten a bit, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Have you done this before?” she whispered.

He pressed his mouth to hers again for a long moment, both of their eyes flicking shut, then murmured, “Once, for a case. Her tongue went mad so I bit it. She slapped me.” 

John couldn’t help but chuckle, working her fingers into his ridiculous nap of curls. “We’ll have to work our way up to that, won’t we?”

Eyes still closed, he grinned like the devil, like a hypothesis that required experimentation had risen in his brilliant, idiot head. “Oh, John—” He paused, brow folding. “Joan.”

“No.” She kissed him again. “John. No reason to stop now.”

He laughed, then, the kind of laugh he reserved for invading Afghanistan and snatching ashtrays. “That’s another reason.”

“What?” His laughter was infectious, so that she was now pressing her forehead to his and giggling with him, stupid and infatuated as she was.

“You don’t try to change me.” 

“I don’t think I could,” she murmured.

Gently, Sherlock took one of her hands in his larger ones, stared as if he didn’t believe she really existed. He then led her toward the couch and sat, tugging on her lightly. She sat and found his lips on hers again, explorative but easy. Her arms went back to his neck almost of their own accord, easing into his weight. It shouldn’t have surprised her how warm he was, but she’d almost expected him to be cold, like a statue or a corpse or some cold-blooded alien from Planet Consulting Detective. But he wasn’t any of those things; he was just a human, albeit a complex one. A human who jumped a little when she licked the seam of his lips, whose cheekbones flushed when her hands strayed to his chest. His tongue answered hers, the barest touch of moisture.

“You won’t bite me?” she chuckled.

He smirked. “No promises.”

She learned the curves of his mouth, discovered the sheer edges of his teeth, found every nook of the cavernous roofing. At first he kissed clumsily, like a virgin high schooler who’d been her first snog, but any idiot could figure out kissing and Sherlock was a sodding genius. Soon he held her by the jaw and the small of her back, bending her against the couch to do _awful_ , _wonderful_ things with that talented tongue of his; he was good at more than smooth-talking. Gradually she forced him back up so as not to be pinned against the couch, sliding onto his lap with her legs tucked up between them. It was marvelous how her slight form folded so perfectly into his arms. She would’ve felt like a child being held by a parent if his hands hadn’t been easing suggestively over her curves and she hadn’t been sucking his tongue.

They broke away, gasping a little.

John leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder. “God,” she whispered.

She felt his chin resting in her damp hair. “Indeed.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is... is Lestrade still downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen?”

“Suppose he is,” Sherlock murmured, and drew his phone out of his pocket. John couldn’t help but chuckle as her detective typed _Bugger off_ and sent it to the DI. “He was here about that assault in the paper.” He pressed his lips against the corner of her eye, then her ear, then her shoulder. “Boring, domestic, not really worth distracting from this...” 

She smiled.  
Nothing could be worth distracting from this.

They fell asleep there. When she woke on Sherlock’s lap, curled into his arms, she knew the whole thing must be a dream or an accident or even an invasion of the body snatchers, because it just couldn’t be real. But then he woke staring at her and that brilliant head of his (faster and sharper than hers would ever be, even half-asleep) sorted it out. He smiled a brilliant smile, not the kind he pulled on for “normal” people or for Lestrade or for serial murder, but a real _Sherlock_ smile, an _I love you, John Watson_ smile. John smiled too, practically giddy, barely able to close her lips to return the kiss he bestowed on her.

At that moment the door opened to Mrs. Hudson, with a single glance of them, dropped her groceries and cried, “Oh, good heavens!”

John buried her face in Sherlock’s neck and they laughed harder than they ever had in their lives.

A week later Sherlock baffled the whole of Scotland Yard by swooping down upon her and kissing her with the kind of passion a drowning man reserves for air. Then he was gone, swirling off crying, “You’re brilliant, John!”

And she was left to explain: “Well— we’re, uh, together. Now.”

Anderson scoffed. Someone whooped. Lestrade said, “Finally! Now everyone back to work.”

And that was how it went. Nothing changed, not really, because Sherlock and John had loved each other all along, even if it had never before manifested in stolen kisses and twined fingertips. She never quite believed she was the _only_ woman Sherlock had ever loved, but that was okay with her, because she was rather certain he loved her most. After all, Irene Adler hadn’t woken up in his arms or snogged him breathless against the kitchen table (another story for another time); those were things only John had experienced.

No one else had ever said, “I love you,” to Sherlock Holmes and saw his look in reply, the look of a man who’s still too unsure to say “I love you” back, but feels it with all his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned! this may sound like the end, but it's not.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went ahead and left this rated Teen, but someone tell me if they think it should be Mature!

“John, really, I’m _not_ concussed.”

“Odd, I’m not any more convinced than the past twelve times you said that.”

“Thirteen.”

John hung her head in defeat, letting the beakers in her hands slosh into the frothy sink. She was taking advantage of a certain detective’s incapacitation by reclaiming the kitchen table, and though she was making progress on that particular front, sooner or later she’d need more than words to keep him on the couch. “Sherlock, for the last time, the EMT said we shouldn’t take any chances.”

The back of Sherlock’s head hitched against the sofa’s arm as he gave a snort of laughter. “You could run medical circles around that tosser, John. I don’t have a concussion, and you know it.”

This was true enough. The EMT who’d cautioned them was obviously just out of the gate and John had appraised Sherlock to be perfectly fine by her (considerably better-practiced) standards... but the table was almost clean. It was worth beguiling him to bed rest if it meant she could finally eat breakfast without worrying she’d reach for the acid instead of the jam.

“Always respect the opinion of another professional,” she replied, employing her most pretentious tone.

“He wasn’t a _professional_ ,” Sherlock scoffed. 

“In any case, we’d hate to have something happen to that brain of yours, wouldn’t we?” That shut him up. Since they’d chipped into the romantic facet of their relationship she’d been surprisingly able to manipulate him, especially if health was involved. He seemed to trust her with his body more than he did himself which, admittedly, was a good decision.

She set the last flask to dry on the rack and turned to survey her success: a clean table. Well— clean was relative, as years of experiments had rendered it stain-covered, but at least she’d feel safe eating on it for a few days. Beaming with her success, she stepped to the couch and wrapped her arms about his neck from behind.

“You put two developing experiments down the garbage disposal,” he grumbled.

“You’ll forgive me,” John breathed against his ear, smirking at the resulting shudder. “I’m going to sleep, now. See you in the morning?”

“No.” He snatched her wrist and turned in one fluid movement, nose brushing hers. “Since you’re so insistent I’ve got a concussion, it’s the least you can do to prevent me from sleeping...” John’s head was turning with an instinctive sort of urgency so that their lips now mingled, his hand on her wrist slowly easing toward her palm. “After all, if I’m to lay here all night I might end up kipping off, and who knows what’ll happen if I do that...” His voice had reduced to a purr, dangerous and churning. John gave a breathy laugh.

“And what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Keep me awake,” he whispered, and her eyes almost fluttered shut at the implication. Their fingers laced, the pulse in his veins alarmingly present. “Please?”

While it was incredibly tempting to jump the arm of the couch and _ravage_ him, John had to acknowledge that she was supposed to be the responsible one in this relationship, and proceed calmly. She took an (incredibly challenging) step back, readjusted the hem of her shirt, and drew in a deep breath. “Whoa, there.” She stepped around the couch and crouched down on his lap, leaning back on hands innocently placed at his knees. “How about we have a talk.”

Sherlock scowled. “That was not what I intended to suggest.”

“I know,” smiled John, patting his petulant face. “But talking is—” she ran her tongue absently over her upper lip, leafing through her vocabulary for a the appropriate term, “—er, good.” Apparently his proposition had left her a bit too scrambled for eloquence.

“We did talk,” he pointed out, settling his palms on her hips with the arch of one eyebrow. 

“Right, for about a minute before snogging.”

He shrugged. “Seemed long enough.” The nimble hands rose to her ribcage, thumbs worrying her jumper’s soft knit. He bit his lip suggestively. “Anything... _else_ you were interested in asking?”

“Stop it, you.” Redirecting his hands to her own, she brought their clasped fingers to her lips. “I just wanted to know,” a kiss to one of his hands, “why you didn’t say anything,” a kiss to the other, “before.”

His gaze had fallen to her lips where they rested on their twined fingers; it was fascinating to see a man so brilliant caught off track by something so singularly simple. Beautiful, really.

Those probing eyes skipped back to her. “You said ‘Not a date’.”

She dropped his hands momentarily. “You said ‘Married to my work’!”

“That was before I realized,” he murmured. “I just— you wouldn’t be interested. You were quite overly adamant about securing a boyfriend.”

“Well, I thought—” Wait. She frowned slightly, pointing at him. “It was on purpose, wasn’t it?”

Mock innocence raised his eyebrows. “ _What_ was on purpose?”

“Oh, don’t be thick!” she hopped off his lap, indignant but unable to be very angry with him lounging with such incredibly _attractiveness_ over the couch. “You drove all those men away on purpose, didn’t you?”

He dwarfed her in one quick motion by standing, forcing her to crane back in order to see his self-satisfied grin. “Oh, didn’t I?” And before she could allow herself to grow any more upset with him, he incapacitated her emotional control by _literally sweeping her off her feet_.

“Sherlock—” and then they were up against the wall and Sherlock was locking the front door and _dear jesus_ her feet couldn’t reach the floor because he was holding her with is other hand and—

“I had to,” he purred against her lips. “I couldn’t have you, but to lose you entirely—” he kissed her, an open-mouthed-tongue-out-has-breathing-always-been-this-hard? kiss, “I couldn’t do that. So I assume you’ll forgive me.”

She wrapped her legs around him and hitched herself up on the wall, gasping a little. “You’re a monster.”

“I aim to be,” he grinned, and from there she rather lost track of what was happening. She knew their mouths hardly parted and that the ever-present barrier of her jumper was breeched by his all-too-eager hands, and above all that she could get _brilliant_ noises out of Sherlock Holmes when she wanted to. 

“Off,” was uttered somewhere around her neck, and she didn’t apprehend what he meant until her jumper had been flung to a far corner of the earth. There was a brief pause as Sherlock took her in, curves and planes and dingy bra (why hadn’t she worn something nicer?), before pressing his profile against her sternum and breathing her in. “God, John, you’re beautiful.”

Had she been a bit more lucid she might have commented on the irony of his calling her a man’s name with his lips inches from her breasts, but as it was it was all she could do to summon the coherence it took to get his shirt off. The purple garment got caught between them so that he had to drop her to her feet, leaving her eye-level with his pectorals. And what _fine_ pectorals they were. Her hands leapt to his ribs, finding them surprisingly palpable and drawing her momentarily from her lusty haze.

“Sherlock— god, do you _ever_ eat?” There was something oddly alluring in his lean frame, somewhat like a runner but lacking the healthiness of musculature that would have suggested good health.

He gave a gasping sort of laugh. “Told you, already: transport.”

Letting her fingertips fan over his skin, she reveled in the flourish of goose bumps. “Isn’t this transport? Us, I mean, on each other like teenagers.”

His lips parted, red with the rawness of too much kissing, before blooming into another one of those smiles, those _real_ smiles, the kind John wanted to catch in a jar and keep fluttering on her nightstand.

“No, this is not transport. This is just...” he scooped her up again, arms locked beneath her legs, heat mounting at the touch of bare skin. “Incredible.” And then they probably should have thrown caution (and their remaining clothes) to the wind and made wanton love in the doorway, but they didn’t— they just stared. Sherlock’s eyes went at a million miles, cataloguing, deducing, filing, and John almost felt vacant, because all she could do was just watch, just revel in the incandescent beauty of sheer genius.

“How,” she whispered, “can two people who’ve been living together for over a year still stare at each other like they’ve never met?”

“Haven’t the faintest. Warrants experimentation.”

Then he’d swung her sideways in his arms like some mail-order bride, and though she wanted to snap something about how her size, however tiny, did not warrant all this picking-up, it was a little hard to form a cohesive argument when he was depositing her on the kitchen table and leaning over her like some great predatory animal.

“Glad I cleaned,” she chuckled, easing back as he pressed her against the stained wood.

“Me, too.” His arms arched around her, effectively sending her heart-rate to the high heavens when his fingers intermingled with her bra clasp. She looped her own arms about his neck and shifted her shoulders inward to allow him better access, then raised her brow when nothing seemed to be happening.

Only a bra could baffle Sherlock. “Trouble?” 

“No,” he asserted with some measure of obstinacy, shifting behind her when she sat all the way up. He swore under his breath, and she could hear his nails engaging in an epic battle with the little hooks.

“I could just—”

“No, got it!” The bra fell loose and was discarded, leaving John rather flushed in the face at the absolutely entranced look which befell his features. His hands made an immediate home on her upper ribs, thumbs skimming over the sides of her breasts with almost timid carefulness. 

“Know just where to look, don’t you?” she chuckled.

His eyes skipped up to hers, then back down. “Obviously.” Then he pressed her down against the table and _examined_ her. He left no inch of born skin unexplored, whether with his flighty fingertips or his hot tongue or just those _eyes_ , until she felt thoroughly done over though she hadn’t even taken off her jeans yet. She took that initiative, herself. The jeans crumpled to the floor in a mess of fabric, and Sherlock breathed, “Oh.” 

She couldn’t help but wonder what exactly there was to “oh” about— she had nothing to offer but considerably short legs, plain pants and what had been called on multiple occasions by her mother “child-bearing” hips. Judging by the immediate movement of his hands to her thighs, however, childbirth was the last thing on his mind. John sat up and pressed her mouth to his, not so much a kiss as a last-resort distraction as she undid the button of his trousers.

“Bed?” she inquired.

“God, yes,” and he’d picked her up again, but this time she was beyond caring.

It was wonderful.

Starting off, it was obvious that Sherlock had no prior experience but as was his usual fashion, he learned quickly. Soon there were breathy “Ah”s and gasps of, “Sherlock!” and moans of “John—” He found every sensitive spot on her body that she knew of and several that she didn’t, and she made discovery that, yes, it was possible to make Sherlock Holmes beg. In the morning he’d have scratches up his smooth back and she’d have to wear one of her turtle-necked jumpers to hide the love bites, but it was fine. Fine, because afterwards she melted into him, and he held her and whispered, “Oh, John...” and she for the first time it was really _all okay_. Euphoria glittered in the center of her heart, warm as it was— the chill of loneliness had vanished, its last vestiges spiraling away with the gentle rubbing of his finger around her scar.

“What’s so great about my scar?” she inquired sleepily. 

His lips ghosted over the furrowed tissue and she felt him smile. “It brought you to me.” 

“Sherlock,” she breathed, chuckling. “You ridiculous human being.”

A sigh into her shoulder produced goose bumps. “I could identify you from not your face, you know.”

Though John knew such a comment shouldn’t have been condoned as pillow talk, she eased further into his arms and murmured, “My measurements?”

“No, more than that.” His hands drifted to her hips. “Dimples, one deeper than the other.”

She felt herself flush; she wasn’t quite sure she was prepared for this. “Wait, Sher—”

Hands descending down her legs. “Small scars from barbed wire.” Inhaling around her neck: “Scent.” Then reaching for her hands: “Fifth metacarpal broken during war, didn’t heal correctly. Nails cut short, military standards. Calloused palms and pads from overuse. Scars from medical instruments.” His fingers swept up her arm, palms fanning out over her neck and coming to trace her cheeks. “Abnormal cranial structure, optical orbits deep for a woman.”

“That’s my face,” she breathed, though the accusation was a little vacant.

He snorted. “Skull. There’s a difference.” He pressed a kiss against her ear. “Unusually large ears, too, though that’s not necessarily a factor of identification.” Before John could say anything he shifted so that they were face-to-face, his lips brushing hers when he spoke: “You’re very self conscious about your ears, John.” A kiss on her nose. “Stupid mindset. I’d never change you.” Kiss on the lips.

His mobile phone buzzed suddenly somewhere in the labyrinth of sheets and he dove in to rescue it, floundering over on his stomach. He read the new text, fired off one of his own, and was immediately up and rushing out of the room.

“Get dressed!” Her bra sailed through the door landed on her head, followed by her jumper and a single shoe. “The game is on!”

It never occurred to her to be upset about the break in romanticism as she pulled on the rumpled clothes— to be sure, she might have been worried if Sherlock had _remained_ that affectionate. After all, John had not fallen in love with a romantic man. She fell in love with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath.

And she wouldn’t change him for the world.


	8. Chapter 8

And so, life went on.

 

Upon beginning to share a bed, John discovered that Sherlock all but became a great spider in his sleep; at any given time she would find herself pinned down by him, all limbs and angles. The shift of harsh edges against soft curves should have been uncomfortable, but there was such a wonder in it that she couldn’t bring herself to be angry whenever an elbow or a knee jabbed into her stomach or back. Instead she would carefully move the offending limb and slide back into the limber curvature of his arms, which would curl around her. There she would make her home, happy.

 

There was a case in Dartmoore where John nearly died of fright, Sherlock was wrong about something, and they kept a lovely mouse-eared chap from going mad. This case would always stand out in her mind, not because of the aforementioned oddities, but because it was on this case that she saw Sherlock cry for the first time. It wasn’t much, just a sort of frantic welling in his eyes as he hissed, “I don’t have _friends_.” But it reminded her that he was, in fact, human. Later, he furthered this reminder by admitting, “I don’t have _friends_ — I’ve only got one.” Then months after that, when they’d had a spat over two dead dogs on the stairs, he pressed his lips to her ear and murmured, “You’re my _best_ friend, really...” and all was forgiven.

 

But then he jumped.  
She felt his wrist between her fingers, still warm but not pulsing.  
Everything _collapsed_.

She always told herself she should have known. A trained doctor who never guessed once the man she spent every moment with could be suicidal? Stupid. Idiot, she called herself (though almost everybody is). Maybe, she thought, maybe she could have prevented it.

And it didn’t help that the last thing she had said to his face was, “You heartless _machine_.”

For weeks after Sherlock jumped, Joan sat in her chair and gazed at the wall, unbearably and irreversibly sad; she had never realized Sherlock brought her such happiness. The companionship and passion and excitement they shared had been clear to her, they were so overwhelming, but the timid contentment which fluttered in her soul had been so entwined with his presence that she hadn’t quite known it existed until he died. She spent three years wondering if she’d ever feel that happiness again, even a semblance of it. 

She didn’t.

Nights eased by as she lay in his (their?) bed, trying to find his scent in the sheets, even though it had long ago succumbed to the London air which flowed in through the stupid window he’d always refused to close. She hadn’t the heart to close it, herself.

More than once Mrs. Hudson laid a weathered hand on hers and murmured, “I won’t be bothered if you want to give up the flat, deary,” but Joan couldn’t bear it. Sometimes the cavities of his absence— the dust in his beakers on the kitchen table, his violin slowly winding out of tune in the corner, that stupid deerstalker— were the only things she found purchase in. Otherwise she felt herself slipping away, like one strong gust of wind would obliterate Joan Watson and she’d be nothing but a name that came after “That fraud, Sherlock Holmes.”

There were efforts on her part to reconnect with people. She attempted drinks with Lestrade and the Yarders, but it was all too quiet and polite, because there was no rude wanker saying, “Oh, trouble with the wife again?” or, “Sally! How many floors are you scrubbing?” Once, she and Mrs. Hudson invited Harry for tea; they managed to endure her company until she cried, “Come on, Joan, there’s other fish in the sea!” at which point she was tossed out.

Joan did try, once or twice, to move on romantically. Blind dates. Lunch with doctors at the clinic who seemed nice enough. But she always ended up talking about Sherlock, about this one case or that one time he said that one thing, and it was obvious to anyone involved that her detective had left her unable to heal.

There were so many things she wanted to tell him. Sometimes, when the loneliness was just maddening enough, she’d take the skull off the mantle and pretend it was Sherlock. “I love you,” she’d say. “I always believed in you. I would trade places with you if I could. The coffin’s probably not so bad. I hated it when you called me John but now it feels stupid when people call me my real name. Please come back and call me John. I almost killed you when I found that head in the fridge— no exaggeration. You would’ve had to solve your own bloody murder. I love you. Your experiments were actually really interesting, I just griped about them because I complain when I’m tired, and you had me tired all the time. You made me feel like I was worth something. Did I mention I love you?”  
She had so much to say.

And yet, when she received _that_ text on _that_ morning ( _I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. –SH_ ), she was unable to say anything at all. 

She rushed to the door, heaving, unsure of the floor under her and the roof above and the lungs that struggled to take in air— and she found him. He hardly looked the same man; scrappy clothes, ginger dye fading from his hair, five new scars that she could count, more age in his gaze than three years could account for. Her eyes saw him, knew it was him, but her brain choked on it, choked on _please, just for me, don’t be dead_ , choked on three years of bitter solitude. But when he whispered, “John,” and touched her hand, she was kissing him, wondering at how the complimentary strain of her tiptoes and bend of his neck had never changed.

Later, she could never say how long they had kissed, or how long she had sobbed “Why!?” and pummeled him with her fists. She remembered, vaguely, she symbiotic heave and sniffle of two weary souls still so in tune that their sobs came in time, one-two, one-two, like the music of a long-silent violin. She remembered feeling happiness reborn inside her, a Phoenix of pain and heat and beauty.

That night, lying trembling and teary-eyed in a bed that once again smelled of Sherlock, John whispered, “Never leave me again,” and he replied, “I won’t. We’ll be immortal.”

 

John proposed by accident.  
They’d just chased a criminal right into a nest of police cars and collapsed, John flat on the sidewalk and Sherlock sprawled in the street. “I could marry you,” she gasped.  
Sherlock said, “Okay,” and kissed her lights out.

She didn’t realize they were engaged until a week later when he looked up from his microscope and asked, “Am I expected to purchase a ring?” She was bewildered but happy enough to just go along with it.

 

They separated only once, when Harry was lapsing into liver-failure. John got the call as they were poking around in a murder victim’s house, and without even listening to her, Sherlock departed the scene yawping about glove fibers. She was left stranded. No cabs were present to be hailed, and by the time she had called a car and it had arrived, Harry was in critical condition. John was sure she’d lose her sister, and because of Sherlock she’d wasted what precious time there was left. 

_MY SISTER COULD HAVE DIED ALONE, HOPE YOURE BLOODY HAPPY  
-JW_  
Was the only communication John and Sherlock had for two weeks. Then she got a call from Mycroft saying, “I found a liver.”

She blanched, mouth hanging open a bit. “You... what?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Sherlock practically begged, it was quite spectacular.”

“I don’t underst—”

“My brother asked me to find a new liver for your sister, which I have done. Since presumably this was an effort to end a row between the two of you, I suppose I’ll reserve the surprise I had worked up over his sudden display of emotional... entanglement.”

After Harry’s transplant, John kissed her goodbye and headed home, where she sat on Sherlock’s lap and curled around him and whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” to which he only said, “I deserved it.” She couldn’t disagree.

 

John got pregnant and miscarried before the two month mark.  
They hadn’t told anyone, so it was just as well between them to pretend it had never happened. But some nights, when John was at her most wistful, she would put a hand to her belly and nuzzle her face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and whisper, “What would our baby have been like?”

And he would pretend like he hadn’t heard, but as she was drifting to sleep, she’d hear him murmur, “Your deep blue eyes, my dark hair. Insufferable temperance. Would have to be a genius, naturally, maybe some kind of artist, though I’ve always hated artists...”

 

They never ended up getting married.  
Sherlock hated ceremonies and John hated paperwork, so the closest they came to matrimony was the accidental renting of a honeymoon suite after a particularly tiring out-of-country case. They agreed that the setting was romantic and it would be a nice place to celebrate a wedding— then used the bed for nothing more than sleeping like a pair of bricks.

 

Their detective work continued until sometime in their late fifties when John shattered her knee in pursuit of a criminal. Sherlock carried her home that night (which was hard on his back, though he’d never admit it) and declared they were moving to the countryside to keep bees, never to poke into criminal business again. This was only partly true, as though they made their home among the hives, Sherlock continued detecting on the side. He did, however, make a point of staying out of the actual apprehension of the criminals whose crimes he unraveled— he had promised John they’d be immortal, and it was a promise he intended to keep.

 

After all, there is no such thing as Happily Ever After.

But Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson got pretty damned close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gahhh thank you guys so much for reading and for all the lovely comments! you're all so very wonderful! ;A;


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